This New Chapter
by TARDISTraveller
Summary: When Clara is fired from her job as a governess, she has nowhere to turn. That is, until a traveling doctor comes to town with his young daughter, Bill, offering a new opportunity for work and friendship...or even something more. A Victorian Whouffaldi Fic.
1. Gone Are the Old Days

Chapter One

Gone are the Old Days

Clara took one step out into the snow outside and instantly wanted to cry. She'd exited this house a thousand times before, normally donning a wide and brilliant smile. The children, little Angelica and Arthur, would wave madly from the windows to wish her farewell. And, always, she'd wave back.

But none of that today.

"I'm sorry, Miss Oswald," Mr. Maitland said from the doorway. He fiddled with the fob of his watch, eyes avoiding his children's former governess as if his life depended on it.

"We just don't have the funds anymore. I do hope you will find new employment soon," he added with an attempt at a smile.

Clara tried to smile, too.

"Thank you, Mr. Maitland. I wish your family well."

Mr. Maitland bowed his head.

"Have a safe journey back to town, Miss Oswald."

Clara nodded and turned away at once. The tears she'd held back so fervently were creeping down her cheeks now. Her gloved hand wiped them away before the carriage driver could see.

"London, please," she requested. "Near St. Paul's."

"Ma'am," the driver replied, stirring the reigns until the horses began marching forward.

Clara turned to the house one last time as the carriage pulled out. The fountain in the front was dried up; a few cracks broke through the wall beside the front door; the shutters squeaked on rusty hinges. It was understandable why Mr. Maitland couldn't afford a governess anymore.

But that didn't lessen the mixture of sadness and worry that kept Clara's head leaned on the window all the way back to London, eyes wide and searching.

That was that chapter of her life closed. What was to come in the next portion of her tale?

. . . . . . . .

The chill of November air was just settling in her small tenement when Clara arrived home. As her boots trudged through the early frost, she marvelled at how calm and accepting she had grown to her fate; a complete turn around from just an hour or two ago. Upon entering her tiny flat, all she felt was relief.

The kettle on, uniform off, and boots tucked in by the fire, Clara emitted a relaxed sigh.

Throughout her journey home, she'd contemplated all the things she could do now, with all the time that lay before her. She could learn to sew and mend socks for the winter. Or perhaps bake an entire Christmas pudding a month early. Maybe she'd finally start writing that novel; give that old Charles Dickens some competition.

The whistle of the kettle blew her daydreams away, but they returned as soon as soon as the steaming liquid was poured into her teacup.

Looking around her space, Clara's eye landed on books and treasures of her mother's travels; knicknacks and novelties from across the world.

Maybe now it was time to have an adventure of her own.

A rapid knock came to the door, making Clara jump so quickly she almost spilled her tea.

"Coming!"

She set the cup hastily on the closest table, smartened up her dress, and yanked the door open. The looming figure that appeared in front of her made a weight sink into her stomach.

"Miss Oswald," her landlord said with a sarcastic tilt of his hat.

"Evening, sir."

The more relaxed she tried to sound in his company, the more childlike her voice came out.

"It's, er," he scratched the back of his neck, leaning on the doorframe in such a way that Clara couldn't close it without hitting him. "It's been quite a while since you've paid rent."

Clara's eyes flickered down.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'll, er, get it to you presently."

"Presently?" He laughed horribly. "I hope by that you mean in the next three days."

"Three days. Right."

Clara's heart sank further. It must've reached her toes by now.

"Look," he said, adjusting his weight but keeping his arm leaned above in a vaguely threatening manner. "You're on your last chance, sweetheart. If I don't get that money by Friday…"

He clicked his teeth and shook his head. Clara got his meaning, a shudder running down her spine.

"I understand, sir."

Her voice sounded even smaller than before.

. . . . . . . .

As soon as the landlord was gone, door shut and locked against the wind and any more unwanted visitors, Clara let herself cry again. It wasn't often she cried twice in one day, but today wasn't like most days.

Most days had been pretty good, in retrospect.

When the tears of her second crying spell dried, she got to work.

For the rest of the evening she sat in front of the fire sipping tea and writing. Again and again she wrote of her qualifications; her work experience, her skills, her interest in honest work. And again and again, she rolled the parchment up in her agitated fists and hurled it into the fire.

With an aching hand and a nearly dry inkwell, Clara found herself watching the moon from her same little spot in the corner. The advertisement was finished; folded and sealed inside the cleanest envelope she could find. All she could do now was wait for morning to send it in.

And then all she could do was wait, again, for a reply.

With the weariness of a week already far too long and far too short, Clara closed her eyes and leaned back into her chair. The fire cocooned her in its warmth as the night chilled and iced over.

And Clara slept, a worried but much needed sleep.


	2. In Are the New

Chapter Two

In Are the New

'Waiting', as it turned out, was the bane of Clara's existence.

The next day, she, quite literally, ran the advertisement to the printing office as soon as the sun rose enough to light the way. She wasn't used to the November air, acclimated to spending her mornings in the nursery, and so she shivered as she walked through the London streets. It was odd seeing the town so quiet. She had to keep reminding herself that it was a Wednesday, and that most people were at work.

That thought sent a pang through her chest every time.

The market distracted her for some time, with its reeking fish and sacks filled with potatoes. Silently her mind drifted to the west, not so far away, where these same vegetables were causing so much heartache.

It filled her with a strange, painful gratitude that, as bad as her luck was, she wasn't a victim of the famine.

When she'd chosen the smallest and least expensive produce and bread that she could find, she hurried home to see if anyone had called.

They hadn't.

She put the food away and sighed woefully, finding no letters at the door or coaches anywhere in sight.

Shoes off, a pot of tea made, and then she was finished her errands for the day.

And so she waited.

She waited while she cooked meals large enough for an army, with only herself to feed. She waited while staring at the fire. She waited while she wondered if she had written her address correctly on the advertisement.

And then she sat, had another cup of tea, and waited some more.

It was well past tea time when she was called out of her misery. A silhouette of a man in a top hat brushed past her window, followed by a light rapping at the door. Clara jumped out of her seat, neary spilling drink all over herself, and began fiddling with her hair.

Her breath stunted as she wondered who it might be. Someone calling about the advertisement? Perhaps her next employer?

She hurried to the door with a genuine smile, and then froze. Her blood went cold.

What if it was the landlord?

No, that wasn't his knock. She knew his knock; it was violent and foreboding and plastered into her memory.

And anyway, he couldn't show up demanding payment two days early, could he?

He could.

But he wouldn't oust her after two years of relatively timely payments, would he?

He would.

A frown set deeply into her face, Clara pulled the door open with her eyes closed.

"Hello, ma'am."

She dared to look at the figure in front of her and found, not her landlord, but a strange man in a brilliantly blue waistcoat, tilting his hat to her as if she were some kind of a lady.

"Is this the residence of Dr. Williams?" He asked. Clara noted an accent far away from London.

"Er, no. He lives down the other side of St. Paul's actually. By the hospital," she explained, pointing in the right direction and shutting the door again.

Her eye caught the final mail coach of the day, sitting at the end of the street. It seemed to have no inclination to deliver to Clara's flat anytime soon.

As she watched the horse and driver ride off deeper into London, she deflated with a sigh.

The man, who she was surprised still stood in front of her, touched a gentle hand to her arm.

"Are you alright?" he asked, sounding genuinely worried over her.

She waved him off, but his question struck a chord which left her blinking tears out of her eyes again.

"I'm fine, sir," she said sternly.

He offered his handkerchief anyway, with a stiff and awkward air about him. Clara took it with a little smile.

"Thank you, sir."

"Not at all. It's practically in my job description to help people."

Clara wiped her eyes as stoically as possible.

"Oh?" She asked, as a ways to shift the subject away from herself.

The man looked sheepishly down at the frost beneath his feet.

"Well, I do what I can. I'm a doctor. Tomorrow's my first day working in London, actually."

He chuckled anxiously. Clara couldn't help but feel her mood lighten at the sight of this sweet, friendly new acquaintance.

"Ah, that explains why you were looking for Dr. Williams," she said.

He glanced down the street.

"Yes. You said it was this way?"

"Exactly. Just, er, swing around the corner, keep to your left, and you'll find a little house beside the hospital."

He smiled as he stepped away from her door.

"Thank you very much, miss…?"

"Clara."

His grin widened.

"Have a good night, Miss Clara."

Once he'd turned back to the sidewalk, Clara took a moment to giggle to herself, ridiculous as she knew herself to be acting. She wasn't a schoolgirl anymore. And he certainly wasn't Prince Charming either. He was probably married, anyway.

But as Clara leaned against the inside of her door and pulled out the man's forgotten handkerchief, she knew that they would meet again. She certainly hoped they would, at least.

She stared at the embroidered 'J. S.' and wondered what the letters could possibly stand for, and let her mind wander, basking in her imaginative stories for a long while before bed.


	3. Funny Seeing You Here

Chapter 3

Funny Seeing You Here

Clara woke early the next morning, but no mail had been left for her. No responses to her advertisement, no eager parents asking for a governess. Just an empty, snow covered street and a draft blowing in the open door that went right through her, freezing her very bones.

With a sigh, she pulled the door closed and locked it against the frigid outdoors. It was still Thursday, she had to remind herself. She still had a day to find the rest of her rent money. All would be well.

She lit a fire, ate some breakfast, and chose not to think about her possible upcoming eviction. Choosing not to think about it, though, seemed to have a funny effect on her brain. The more she pushed the scary, dreadful thoughts away, the faster and more fervently they came. One moment she'd be biting into a piece of bread dreaming wistfully of running away to Paris to try an exquisite little bakery, and the next she was crying into her tea about the landlord coming to steal her home away.

A little before noon, Clara decided she'd had enough of these violent mood swings.

Shaky with nerves, she forced herself to get dressed in her warmest layers and tie her boots on. It was a chilly day out again, more so than yesterday, and her eyes looked back in wanting as she exited the front door. But she turned her head to the street and carried on. It wasn't going to do any good to sit around worrying all day. And anyway, perhaps there were some fantastic decorations up in town. It was only a little over a month until Christmas now.

The streets surrounding St. Paul's were lined with half-raised decorum; wreaths and holly and well arranged lamps that would look absolutely beautiful after sundown. Clara made a mental note to come back after dark. Maybe the lights would lead her to a happier place.

She grinned as a few children darted in front of her to see the new toys lining the store window. Dolls and wooden horses, just like the ones that had filled her own childhood nursery.

Seeing the children and the toys also brought a pang of sadness into her heart. Angelica and Arthur Maitland. What were they up to now that she wasn't there? Was their father around more? Was their economic situation improved at all?

A gust of wind hit hard, making her shiver. She pulled her shawl tighter around herself, pausing for a moment as the cold air passed. As she waited, she heard a familiar voice, with a familiar accent.

"It'll pass soon, darling. Just hold tight."

Clara turned to find the stranger from yesterday standing by the wall of the toy shop, hugging a little girl close to himself. She barely reached his waist, due to how young she was or how long his legs were Clara didn't know.

"Doctor?" The girl asked, raising her head. "Why does the wind get so cold?"

"It's the season changing. I believe it's because we're further from the sun now."

"It wasn't this cold in Italy."

"Ah, I think that's because of the tilt of the Earth."

"How did the Earth get tilted?" She asked, eyes bright and cold seemingly forgotten.

The man quirked his head.

"I'm...not sure."

Clara caught his eye and gave him a small wave. He smiled in reply and, taking the girl's had in his own, walked over to where she was stood.

"Hello again," he said, touching his hat as if debating whether to tilt it or not.

"Hello yourself," Clara said.

"I, er, don't think I properly introduced myself."

He held out the hand that wasn't holding onto the little girl.

"Doctor John Smith. I'm working temporarily at St. Bartholomew's. Your name was...Clara, yes?"

Clara nodded.

"Yes. That's quite a memory you've got."

He smiled bashfully but didn't reply. Clara suddenly remembered something and reached into her pocket, beneath the shawl and all of the layers she wore.

"You forgot this yesterday." She held out his handkerchief. "Thank you, again. Not everyone is that kind."

He shoved the fabric into his pocket with a shrug.

"It's virtually my job description to help people."

The girl tugged on his coat.

"Is she one of your patients, Doctor?"

He chuckled and lifted her up.

"No, darling. Just an acquaintance."

"What's an...aqua…?"

"An acquaintance is someone you've only just met."

The girl's eyebrows furrowed.

"I thought that was a stranger?"

He shook his head with a smile.

"Bill does love asking questions," he explained to Clara.

Clara smiled to let him know it was alright.

"That's good. That means she's got a bright future ahead of her."

Bill turned to Clara.

"What does asking questions do?"

Clara felt the confidence that had been stolen by the landlord return in full force.

"Well; when you ask a question, you can find out the answer. And that's how you learn things. A lot of new things."

"Oh," Bill said, staring deep in thought for a moment. Then she turned back to John.

"Can I go look at the toys in the window, please?"

John laughed, setting the girl down.

"Of course. But stay where I can see you. And make sure the other kids have a chance to look, too."

Bill dashed off to the window, pressing her face against the glass. John watched her with a sad sort of look in his eye, but it was gone by the time he turned to Clara.

"You're very skilled with children," he said thoughtfully.

"I'm a governess. Well, sort of. I'm in between jobs right now."

John's jaw dropped into a grin.

"Not seriously?"

Clara's cheeks flushed pink, but John shook his head.

"I meant...we only just moved to the area. I work long shifts sometimes at the hospital, and I've been leaving Bill mostly with nurses for the past few days. I...I think I could really use your help, if you are available…?"

Clara's eyes widened.

"Yes, of course. I am definitely available!"

She let herself dream, and hope, for a moment. A new job? For a kindly doctor and an inquisitive, seemingly well-behaved little girl? It was all too good to be true. Perhaps the cold was getting to her?

"Brilliant," John said, handing her a card with his name and address on it. "Would you be able to interview tonight? So that we can settle the details and make sure you're a good fit for each other?"

Clara's smile spread from ear to ear.

"That would be perfect, Dr. Smith."

"John, please," he said, lifting his hat to run a hand through his hair.

"John," Clara repeated.

As she walked home, Clara didn't even feel the biting wind nor hear the chatter of those looking down on her filthy boots and torn shawls. She was a woman well on her way to the job of her dreams. If tonight could only go correctly, she'd be singing a new tune and living a different life this time tomorrow.


	4. And Dinner Too?

Chapter Four

And Dinner Too?

As Clara prepared for her visit to John and Bill's house, she realized that nothing she had to wear seemed adequate. This was possibly the start of a new chapter in her life, and all of her dresses were so short her ankles could almost be seen above her boots. She hadn't thought she'd grown much since she'd first been given these dresses, probably seven or eight years ago, but as she surveyed her image in the mirror, it would seem that she had. If only those tall girls from school could see her now; would they still called her 'vertically challenged' and the like?

She smirked to herself, but then remembered her nerves. This was only an interview, of course. She didn't have the job yet.

And she definitely didn't have the money for tomorrow's rent bill yet.

In a more sullen mood, Clara started out the door into the frosty air. The sun was just starting to set, parents calling for their children as they ran around the streets giggling. Their play put a smile on Clara's face.

That is, until one of their errant snowballs came whizzing towards her. It grazed her cheek as she fucked away, leaving a thin line of broken skin where the sharp ice had made contact.

Clara touched a palm to her face to investigate, calming when she realized there was hardly any blood. She turned up to the child who had thrown it, a boy cringing as his mother yanked him away by the ear.

"It's alright! I'm fine, really," she called, hoping to lessen the boy's punishment. The mother threw her a glare as if she were an accomplice.

When she arrived at John's house, just a few blocks closer to the Thames than her own, she was a little taken aback. She'd expected him to live somewhere big and expensive, where the other city doctors lived. Somewhere with servants and stewards and a lawn or, at least, a view of some landmark or park.

Instead, his flat was at the top of a slightly crooked East end building, with a hidden charm rather than a modern flair. She knocked on the door and was greeted by John himself, which nearly startled her. She was so used to being greeted at work by old butlers with tuxedos and white gloves. The 'master of the house' typically liked to be bothered only with things on a need-to-know basis.

"Ah, Clara, hello."

He stepped out of the way so that she could walk in and she suddenly smelled the unmistakable odor of burning food.

John scratched the back of his neck.

"We seem to have lost track of the time. I hope you like roast beef? And we have some green beans and carrots as well."

Clara smiled, though she was still more than shocked that a doctor was cooking her supper.

"Roast beef is my favorite. Next to pudding, of course."

"Of course," John said, with a lopsided grin. His face fell suddenly as his eyes landed on her cheek.

"Are you alright?" He asked, motioning to her face.

Clara covered the scrape with a hand and hissed in pain. She'd nearly forgotten about the incident with the snowball.

John dashed away and came back lugging his medical bag.

"Please, have a seat. I can clean that up for you."

Clara obeyed, but sat up stiffer than she usually would. The entire situation still seemed so bizarre and new that she didn't know how to act. Even her own doctors didn't seem to take so much care in her; if anything, they enjoyed when she was ill or injured and needed to pay them to get better again.

In hindsight, Clara realized maybe she'd never had very good doctors.

"This might sting a little," John said, kneeling in front of her with a cloth doused in some kind of smelly antiseptic.

He dabbed it gently on her cheek, but she couldn't suppress a wince. John's eyes softened in apology.

"Sorry. Always gets worse before it can get better."

He smiled that tilted smile again and Clara felt her heart flutter despite herself. He was still wearing that beautiful blue waistcoat, now without a jacket. As he held the cloth to her face, she studied him more closely. His kind eyes, his anxious movements despite seeming like he knew exactly what he was doing.

He lifted the cloth abruptly and tossed it into a nearby basin.

"That should keep it from infection. How does it feel?"

Clara grit her teeth.

"Honestly, it stings a little."

He rose to his feet and nodded.

"What happened?"

She waved it off.

"A boy's snowball went a little bit off course."

"Nothing that a slice of roast won't solve, I hope?" John asked.

Clara smiled and followed him to the dining room. Three different chairs of three different heights surrounded the lopsided table. Clara almost wanted to pry into John's past a bit more, if only to find out how he came to live in...if she were honest, such disarray. But then John disappeared to the corridor and she was left alone with the half-burnt roast and a bowl of vegetables.

John came back a moment later with Bill tracking behind him, walking almost as stiffly as Clara had been sitting. She sat down quietly and folded her hands together, then looked to John for instruction.

He grinned at her, making her lose focus and start giggling. Clara laughed, too. She'd always been governess for parents that were almost as distant to their children as they were to herself. It was such a pleasant change to find someone-a doctor, no less-who actually had some fun with his child.

John noticed her and his eyes widened.

"Eat, please! Would you like anything to drink?"

Clara hesitantly served herself a slice of beef.

"The water is fine, thank you."

John nodded and turned to Bill.

"Half a slice or a full slice?" He asked.

"Hmm." She pondered for a moment. "Full slice!"

He cut her piece and served her, then dropped a spoonful of vegetables on the plate as well. Bill's nose crinkled in disgust.

"Bill…" John said with a playful smile.

"I don't like vegetables."

"I can't make my patients to eat them and not make you, can I? That just wouldn't be fair."

Bill picked at the carrots with her fork.

Clara swallowed a piece of beef and leaned over to Bill. She arranged the carrots into eyes and the green beans into a smile.

"See how happy the vegetables are? You're going to be ten times happier when you've eaten them. They have happy powers."

"Happy powers?"

"They make you happier. And healthier, too, which you're papa will certainly tell you."

She looked over to John and noticed his pale complexion. He'd seemed to jump at the word 'papa'. Was she wrong? Had she made a huge mistake?

"John?" She asked timidly.

He jumped back into awareness and cleared his throat.

"Yes. Yes, they will make you very healthy, Bill."

He gave Clara a very forced smile, which she returned, and then the trio ate in near silence, broken only by a few random questions from Bill about the widest array of topics that Clara would have thought possible. When they were finished their meal, Clara stood to put her dish away. John practically jumped out of his seat to stop her.

"I'll take care of that," he insisted, already setting her plate on top of his.

Clara thanked him a million times and sat back in her seat. Bill was seated next to her, kicking her legs under the table.

"Miss?"

Clara turned to the young girl with a smile on her face.

"Do you live nearby?" Bill asked.

"Yes, actually. I'm a bit closer to St. Paul's."

Bill smiled.

"St. Paul's is lovely. The Doctor and I go there for picnics sometimes."

Clara grinned ear to ear.

"You know, I've always wanted to try that," she said. "But you know, you live really close to the river. I bet you have some fantastic views."

Bill shook her head.

"The river is dirty."

Clara chuckled, as did John who had just walked in from the kitchen.

"Well," Clara said, "you're right about that."

Bill laughed, and then slid off of her chair. She tugged on John's sleeve as he picked up a couple forks to put them away.

"Doctor?" She said. "Can I go to my room? I need to finish my drawing before I forget."

John nodded in response. He watched her go with that same sad smile on his face before he met Clara's eye.

"She's very sweet," Clara said.

"She is." He opened the door to the kitchen, then turned around. "You can go sit in the lounge. Make yourself comfortable."

She sat stiffly upright on the chair again, feeling her hands start to shake. If he came in and gave her a job, then her future was bliss. If he came in and dismissed her, she'd be out on the street tomorrow evening.

A lot was riding on this next conversation.

John entered the room a few minutes later with his sleeves rolled up. He dropped into a chair opposite Clara looking exhausted. He brightened as he realized she was watching him.

"Do you need anything? Tea?" He asked, already halfway out of his seat again.

"I'm fine. Thank you, John."

He smirked.

"I'm so used to people calling me 'doctor' or 'Dr. Smith'. It's nice to be called John again."

He grew contemplative, rubbing his hands together. Clara waited for him to speak, knowing his mind was busy.

"I took Bill in when her mother died," he said suddenly. "She was in my care. Bill was very young. Her mother used to call me 'the doctor' to make it simple for her. That's why she still calls me that."

Clara paused for a second.

"I'm sorry. About her mother," she added.

His eyes flicked over her own.

"Me too," he said with a frown. He took a deep breath and rubbed his palms on his thighs.

"That was in Bristol. About four years ago now."

"What brought you to London?" Clara asked.

"They needed help. I'm a travelling doctor, so I go wherever there's need. We just spent some time in Germany and then France. It's nice to be a little closer to home again."

Clara smiled.

"That life would be a dream for me. I've always wanted to see the world."

"It has its positives and negatives. We're only in town for four months this time," he explained. "One of their surgeons is researching new medicines throughout the continent. I'm just a place filler until he gets back. I don't know where we'll be after that."

Clara's face fell.

"Oh," she said softly.

His expression brightened as if to counteract her own sorrows.

"But, enough about me. I think that we should talk about what you came here for. I'm sure you want to get home."

Clara couldn't remember a time she wanted to go home less, but didn't say anything.

John sat up straighter.

"I'll say it flat out: I think that you'd be the perfect governess for Bill. I hope that you're still available, because we could really use your help and I think I would like to hire you this instant."

Clara blinked in a daze.

"Yes, I, er, I mean of course. Of course! I can start immediately, if you'd like me to," Clara stammered back, lost for words.

John smiled.

"That's brilliant. Can you start tomorrow, then?"

"Yes, I can," she said. Her face fell as she remembered what day 'tomorrow' was.

"Brilliant," he repeated. "Then...tomorrow at eight in the morning? Would that be alright?"

Clara nodded fervently.

"Yes, that would be perfect."

He smiled broadly.

"I'll only need you to come in on days when I am working. But I will pay you what you need to offset the cost. I hope that's alright."

Her jaw nearly dropped. Was she dreaming? Or did her new employer just ask her if it was alright to have paid time off?

"That is extraordinarily kind of you, sir."

"John," he said, standing.

Clara stood too, though she found her legs wobbly.

"John," she said with a blank, happy stare.

He held out his hand and she shook it.

"Bill," he said over his shoulder. He let go of Clara's hand and repeated, "Bill!"

The young girl came bursting out of her room.

"Yes, Doctor?"

John gestured toward Clara.

"Clara will be your new governess."

Bill smiled widely.

"That's a wonderful idea, Doctor."

John smiled proudly, and quitely sent Bill to get ready for bed. He turned back to Clara and then glanced out the window.

"It's pretty dark out there. I can call a cab, if you need it."

"I think I'll be alright," Clara said with a smile. "It's only a few blocks."

John insisted, but Clara was adamant that she wanted to walk home. He had no chance against her will, that was certain.

So Clara walked home in a daze. The chill of the air didn't reach her with the cloud of utter joy she was riding on. She smiled at everyone she passed, including the dogs eating from the piles of rubbish in the alleyways.

It was as if her life had only just begun.


	5. I'll Take Care of Things

Chapter Five

I'll Take Care of Things

When Clara arrived at John's flat the next morning, toting along a large carpet bag, she was both the happiest and the most nervous person in London. Her heart was beating so loud she could hear it in her skull, and as she raised her hand to knock, she noticed a tremor running through her fingers.

"Stop being so stupid," she muttered to herself. "This isn't your first time as a governess."

The door opened suddenly and Clara stiffened, a plastered on smile hiding her secret anxieties.

"Hello John," she said to the harried man in front of her. Both his collar and his hair were standing up in places.

"Clara, hello, come in." He hurried into the room, buttoning his collar closed as he dashed off to look for something.

"I apologize for my appearance," he said from across the room. "Running a bit late today, I'm afraid."

"Please, don't let me get in the way. I'll go to the nursery, yes?"

He smiled gratefully and pointed her down the hallway.

"Bill's room is at the end."

"Thank you. Oh, John?" She turned back around. "Are there any rooms you don't want me in, or specific rules to follow? Only, we didn't get to discuss the details last night.

His eyebrows furrowed at her question.

"Should there be rules? Er, I mean, no; make yourself at home."

He threw her another quick smile and then sat to put his shoes on. Clara watched him for a moment, as if transfixed. He really was the strangest man she'd ever worked for. Her prior employers had all been the same; controlling, angry, strict, focused on making their children 'respectable'.

John was...different.

Different in the best way possible.

She started toward the nursery before he could catch her staring.

Bill was awake, but still in her nightgown and in the afterglow of a dream.

"Good morning," Clara said, setting her bag on the floor. "I trust you slept well?"

Bill smiled.

"I had a dream last night."

Clara sat beside her on the bed.

"Oh? What was it about?"

"I was on a ship," Bill said. "A ship that could go anywhere I wanted to go."

Clara widened her eyes.

"Anywhere in the world?"

Bill nodded. Clara tickled her under the arm, getting a giggle in response.

"The Doctor tells me you've already been all over the world."

"Well, some of it," Bill conceded. "I like London best though."

"What's the best part about London?"

Bill thought for a moment.

"The toy shops. And the hospital."

"You like the hospital?" Clara questioned.

"When the Doctor is there. And sometimes the ladies give me sweets," Bill added in a not-so-quiet whisper.

"What's that about sweets?" John said, entering the room. Bill giggled again.

He was fully dressed now, wearing his coat and carrying his medical bag. He dropped the latter as he knelt in front of his adopted daughter.

"I've got to get to the hospital. Do you promise you'll be on your very best behavior for Miss Clara?"

"Very, very best," Bill assured.

John gave her a smile and a hug before standing with his bag again.

"Are you set for the day? I'll probably be back around five this evening."

Clara nodded, getting to her feet.

"I think we'll be alright."

She followed him to the door, suddenly feeling a little daunted. In the past, she'd usually had specific instructions; what to do, what not to do, where to go, where not to go. Now she had the freedom to choose what to do, it was a little scary.

"Have a good day, Clara," John said, disappearing down the staircase. Clara waved, and then came back inside and shut the door.

"Miss Clara?" Bill called from the other side of the flat.

Clara took a deep breath.

"Here we go."

. . . . . .

By the time John returned home, Clara had enjoyed the best workday of her life. She and Bill had started out the day with some arithmetic and reading, then made a messy but delicious lunch of cucumber sandwiches. During tea, a cup had broken and Bill had cried while Clara properly worried that she'd get the sack, but since then the day had been good.

Now a slightly dry, but still edible, chicken sat on the dining table, watched eagerly by Bill and Clara. When they heard the door open, they hurried into the front lounge.

"Doctor!" Bill shouted, running toward John.

He set his bag down and braced himself just before she barrelled into him. Clara noted the dark circles forming beneath his eyes.

"Hello darling. How was your day?"

She leaned back, leaving her arms around his neck.

"We made cucumber sandwiches. And Miss Clara made the best tea!"

"The best? The best in the world?"

Bill nodded with a giggle. Clara shook her head.

"I don't know about that." She clasped her hands together. "I best be heading off. Don't let me get in the way of your supper."

John let go of Bill abruptly.

"Please; don't leave on our account."

Clara smiled politely.

"Thank you, but I really should be getting home. It'll be dark soon."

John nodded.

"Thank you, Clara. For everything you've done for us. You have no idea how helpful you've been."

She noticed that exhaustion in his features again. It was a side effect of being a doctor, she supposed. It must've been difficult to separate himself from his work, with how compassionate he was.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then, John. Bill."

"Tomorrow," he agreed.

. . . . .

Clara walked home in a blissful daze. The air was crisp, just the way she liked it, and there was a kettle waiting to be boiled sitting at home. Hugging her shawl around her, she had the odd feeling she was forgetting something, but cast the thought from her mind. Nothing would disturb her tonight.

She'd had a good day. No, a great day. A wonderful day, with a wonderful little girl and her brilliant and kind caregiver. She had a steady job and a house to come home to at the end of the day. All was well.

Within eyesight of her house, Clara froze. A figure's silhouette leaned against her door; a large man with workman's boots. She hesitantly forced herself forward, self suddenly conscious. Rising nerves frazzled through her system. She was afraid.

"Clara, Clara, Clara," the man said. Her landlord appeared from the shadows, the light above making his sneer even more foreboding.

"I hope you have your rent money for me."

She swallowed, her blood turning as cold as the evening air.

"I've just been hired as a governess to one of the doctor's at St. Bartholomew's," she said.

"Let's not dawdle around the subject. Do you have the money or not?"

She backed up unconsciously. Her face was red, feet literally shaking in her boots.

"No, sir," she whispered with her head cast down. "I promise I will next week, whenever I get paid. I have almost the whole amount right now."

"Almost isn't good enough this time, I'm afraid," the man said with a frown. "Look, Clara, I've been taking it too easy on you. But I can't any more. If you can't pay your rent on time, yet again, then I have no choice."

"I promise; please," she cried, wishing she didn't sound so desperate. But she was. She was very desperate.

He came forward.

"Now, Clara, I ain't going to fight you on this. Either pay me my due, or get your things off of my property."

Another set of feet suddenly came charging toward them across the cobblestones.

"What seems to be the problem here?" John's voice came from beside Clara, making her jump as much as it warmed her heart and calmed her nerves.

The landlord backed up a pace, touching his hat in some mock greeting.

"Just business, sir," he said with an angry scowl. "Nothin' to see."

John set Clara's carpet bag down on the ground beside her.

"You forgot this in Bill's room," he explained. "We hurried after you, but you'd already gone."

He shifted to reveal Bill, standing next to him with her mittened hand in his. Clara smiled gratefully at them both.

"Now, sir," John said to the landlord. "I think we can solve this issue with more civility."

"This doesn't concern you. This is between me and my former tenant."

The word 'former' dropped a weight into Clara's stomach.

John held up a hand.

"Hold on."

"No," the landlord said darkly, taking a step toward John. He was almost half a foot taller even than the doctor.

"I've been waiting long enough. Now take yourself and the girl away."

John stood his ground, making Clara nervous.

"I can't do that. I'm not going to let you throw her out into the street because of some money. Unlike you, I actually have some care for other people."

The landlord came at him with a glare, and shoved him so hard he tripped back a few feet.

"Doctor!" Bill shouted, as his hand was ripped from her own.

Clara came in between the two men.

"Please! Don't hurt him on my account."

John recovered himself and looked sternly into the other man's eyes.

"What amount is her debt?"

"20 pounds."

Clara knew it to be more like 15, perhaps even ten, but stayed silent.

John reached into his pocket and pulled out the requested amount, handing it over with a small smile.

"Please, take it. She's under my employment and I failed to pay her wages this week. Clara is blameless in this."

The landlord took the money and, still in a right huff, walked off counting and recounting it.

John took hold of Clara's shoulders.

"Are you alright?" He asked in earnest.

"I will never repay you," she said, shaking her head.

"Don't worry about it. Will you be alright on your own for the night?"

She nodded her head and took her carpet bag.

"Thank you, John. You have no idea how much this means."

"I couldn't see you put on the street tonight."

"I thank you all the same." She waited until he welcomed her thanks before disappearing into her home.

With the door closed and locked, she set her bag down and made a cup of tea. It had started as a good day, that was certain. Facing down the landlord was quite a different story. And to be rescued by this mysterious John was...Clara couldn't decide if she was more happy or more embarrassed.

Overall, she was simply grateful to be in her home again, in front of the fire.

Tomorrow's challenges could wait until tomorrow.


	6. You Just Rest Easy

Chapter 6

You Just Rest Easy

The first two weeks of Clara's new job flew by. She was finding this work so much easier than her previous appointments. Perhaps it was John's easy manner, or Bill's nearly perfect behavior. Or maybe she just enjoyed being able to pay her rent again after that first night's disaster.

Whatever it was, she fell into the rhythm of it very nicely. In no time at all, she'd memorized where everything was kept in the cramped but cozy fat; all of the nooks and crannies where Bill's toys ended up and where she hid the vegetables she didn't like to eat.

She also learned more and more about the people she was serving. Bill asked questions about everything, a curious girl, but rarely did she not already have some possible answers prepared. She had a spirit Clara had to admire for one so young. She knew when she saw things she didn't like, such as peas and boys who were mean to girls.

But she had a warmth ad a wisdom, too, which Clara admired even more. She supposed the young child had spent a lot of time at various hospitals by now, and she did have quite a sad and moving past to learn from.

The older Smith, 'the Doctor' as Bill always called him, proved to be even more interesting than Clara had first thought, which was certainly saying something. He was always full of smiles when he arrived home, sometimes bringing small gifts for Bill from the nurses. He spoke enthusiastically about such a vast array of subjects that it made Clara's head spin.

Yet, at the same time, not once did she not catch that sad look in his eye, always when he did not think anyone was watching. The slight twitch of his lips when he smiled, and the deep rooted kindness that she knew could only come from as deep rooted a loneliness.

She always wanted to ask him about these things, and he always seemed to want to talk to someone about them. But as soon as she opened her mouth or gained enough courage and met his eyes, he changed the subject entirely, launching into a game with Bill or a cool-but-gross story from the hospital.

It was well into November now, and the chill that had set on the streets was permanent. Bill and Clara were seated, as they usually were these days, by the hearth of the fireplace. They each had a shawl wrapped around their shoulders, but as hot as the fire was and as cozy as the fabric was, the air still made them shiver.

"Miss Clara?" Bill asked, hugging her bear closer. "Why does the weather get so cold this time of year?"

"Well. The weather needs to get London ready for snowmen, right? And snowmen need it very cold."

Bill only laughed.

"Is that a made-up story?"

Clara mocked disbelief.

"You think I make up my stories?"

"Not all of them."

Clara tickled Bill under the arms until they were both laughing, forgetting for a moment about the cold.

The door opened, stopping their play abruptly as Bill jumped to her feet.

"The Doctor is home!" She called, turning to the door.

Clara stood, too. But they both froze.

John staggered into the room, shutting the door behind him. He looked…horrible. He hugged his beat up medical bag close to himself in a white-knuckle grip, like a lifeline. Beneath his ruffled coat, Clara saw dried blood splattered on his shirt.

She guided Bill back to the hearth with whispered comforts, then hurried back to John.

"Are you hurt?" She asked, twiddling her thumbs.

"No, no," he breathed, setting his bag down.

She led him to a chair and helped pull his coat off of his lanky shoulders. The red on his shirt stood out more clearly now that it was all that covered him.

To keep calm, Clara busied herself hanging up his coat and getting a glass of wine from the kitchen.

"John?" She called, seeing as he was staring into space.

He jumped at her voice, and then took the glass from her hand.

Clara sat on the sofa opposite, watching him closely as she wrung her hands. His eyes were almost glazed over, looking at nothing in particular. And as he took a sip of the wine she'd given him, his fingers shook so madly the glass rattled, threatening to crash to the floor at any moment.

"Can I do anything to help?" Clara asked.

John shook his head, but threw her a grateful smile.

"It was just a tough day."

Bill entered the room timidly. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of John's blood-spattered shirt, making Clara jump to her feet.

"He's alright," she comforted. "John, er, do you need help cleaning up?"

He looked down at himself for seemingly the first time.

"No; I think I can manage. Thank you, Clara," he added.

"It's not a problem. Do you need anything else?"

John shook his head.

"No; you go home. The wind is picking up out there. You don't want to catch a chill."

Clara got her carpet bag from Bill's room and gave them each a departing smile.

"I will see you both tomorrow morning, then. Please take care, John."

He flashed a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. Even Bill's usually happy face was dampered somewhat. Clara disappeared out the door before she could second guess herself for the millionth time that night.

Still, she couldn't' forget that look in John's eyes when he'd first stepped through the door. Nor the fear that gripped her heart when she saw the red lining his shirt.

In fact, she didn't think that she would ever forget.

. . . . . .

Bill woke late in the night, unsure of what could have stirred her. She was used to the sounds of ships chugging down the Thames by now. And the neighbors shouting to each other across the street. She was even accustomed to the clip-clop of horses carrying wagons down the cobblestones late into the evening, bringing more visitors and more goods to London for the weekend.

She sat up in bed, wrapping her blanket closer to herself as a cold draft blew in from the window. It was almost December now. A frost had already set on the window, white crystals against the backdrop of the black night sky. Bill smiled at the image for a moment, but then grew puzzled again.

She wasn't one to give up a mystery. And so she sat for a minute, listening closely to the wind and the trees and the rattling window panes. Nothing seemed amiss.

That is, until she heard faint mutterings coming from the other side of the flat's thin walls.

Bill found herself suddenly very awake, padding toward the door in her nightgown. It was cold, especially with her bare feet on the uncarpeted floors, but she carried on nonetheless. Something wasn't right.

She followed the noise, still very faint, to the Doctor's door. Here, she could hear better. It was his voice, but not anything she'd heard him say in the daytime. He sounded scared. Or sad. But the Doctor was never scared and very rarely sad.

Bill carefully turned the knob and tiptoed into the Doctor's room. He was asleep, though he didn't seem very peaceful. His eyebrows furrowed together as his lips whispered quiet murmurs. Every other moment, it seemed, he turned over and adjusted himself, very obviously irritated by something.

"No," he muttered, louder than his previous incoherent words.

Bill approached slowly.

"Doctor?" She said, hardly above a whisper.

"No, no. Stay with me. Stay…"

He rolled over again, facing Bill. She watched a tear track down his face.

"Doctor?" She called louder.

He didn't hear her, caught up in his misery.

"No...Idris!" He practically shouted.

Bill jumped back, feeling tears of her own.

"Idris, please!"

Bill hurried to his side and shook him by the shoulder.

"Papa!" She called, forgetting her usual name for him. "Papa, wake up. It's only a dream."

She shook his shoulder harder and suddenly his eyes flew open.

John gasped, his heart racing in his chest as he breathed heavily. He wiped his face and stared at his wet fingertips with a baffled expression.

"Papa, it's alright," Bill said, crying into his neck as she wrapped her arms around him.

He blearily returned the hug, his mind somewhere else entirely. As he sat halfway in bed, Bill cradling his neck, he slowly came back to his senses.

"Bill. Bill, I'm alright."

She leaned back and sniffled.

"You had a bad dream."

"Yes," he admitted. "Yes, I did."

He wiped the tears off of her cheeks.

"Thank you, Bill. For waking me."

"You scared me, papa."

His eyes widened at the new name, a smile twitching his lips.

"I'm sorry, Bill. You can go back to sleep now. Do you need me to tuck you in?"

She nodded silently.

He brought her back to her room, settling her under her covers again. He was about to leave when her small voice called him back.

"Papa?"

"Yes, Bill?"

She waited until he was sat on the edge of her bed to continue.

"Are you alright?"

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm always alright, darling." He patted her hand and stood. "Sleep well."

In the hallway, John let the forced smile drop and headed back to his room.


	7. What to Say

Chapter Seven

What To Say

When Clara arrived at the Smith household the next morning, she found John almost as exhausted as he'd been yesterday. Bill seemed off, too, sitting quietly on the floor, lazily pushing around a toy horse. Clara set her bag in the nursery and then came back to find them unchanged.

She went to John, who was standing by the door closing his medical bag.

"Are you alright?"

"Mmhmm," he replied without looking up. "Just tired."

He flashed that fake smile up to her before turning to Bill.

"I best be heading off."

Bill rose silently and grabbed his waist in a hug. This one lasted longer than their usual goodbyes; and seemed a lot more solemn as well. She met John's eyes as he held his adoptive daughter, but he only gave her that ridiculous smile that meant he was actually not happy at all.

Maybe someday she'd understand him.

Maybe she would never.

When Bill finally let go, John picked up his bag and tightened the scarf around his neck.

"Have a nice day," he said to them both.

Clara gave him one of her own false grins as he headed out the door.

When he was gone down the street, Cara shut the door and turned to Bill with a brighter look on her face.

"Now; how about we do some drawing? I found some of the Doctor's old art supplies. That would be a lovely present for him when he gets home, wouldn't it?"

Bill seemed to perk up a bit at the idea, but still only nodded in response. Clara chewed her bottom lip.

"Bill," she said, kneeling down to the child's level and taking her hands in her own. "Is everything alright?"

Bill looked at the floor. Then, slowly, she shook her head. Clara encouraged her to sit on the floor beside her, clearing away the toy horse.

"Do you want to talk about it? I always feel better when I tell someone about what's bothering me."

Bill picked up the toy horse and fiddled with it unconsciously.

"The Doctor always seems so sad," Bill said softly. "Like there's something troubling him all the time. But he never talks about it."

Clara nodded.

"A lot of adults are like that," Clara explained. "They don't like to talk about things that are upsetting them."

Bill furrowed her brows.

"Why not?"

"Well, some people are taught that it's immature to show feelings. Or that they shouldn't make other people worry about them."

"I worry about the Doctor," Bill admitted. "Does he not want me to?"

Clara rubbed the girl's arm with a gentle smile on her face.

"It's good that you worry about him. That means that you're kind."

Bill looked at the toy horse again.

"He has nightmares," she said quietly.

Clara's heart ached for both of them. She reached out and stroked Bill's hair with her thumb.

"Did he have a nightmare last night?"

Bill paused in her playing, and then nodded silently. Clara went through a dozen possible responses in her head. But none of them sounded right. Ultimately, she decided to let Bill speak next.

"I didn't know adults had bad dreams."

Clara smiled sweetly.

"Adults have bad dreams all the time. We get scared, too, you know. All the time.

Bill thought this over for a while, and then seemed to accept it. Clara rubbed her shoulder again and then got to her feet.

"Now, how about we look for those art supplies? If we're lucky, maybe we'll even find a few of the Doctor's drawings."

Bill smiled at that, and followed happily after Clara.

. . . . .

When John returned that evening, he seemed almost like a different person. Yes, there were lines of exhaustion drawn on his face, and his shirt and coat were certainly rather ruffled. But he was smiling, grinning, and moved into the front room with energy he hadn't had that morning.

"Good evening, Clara," he said joyously, setting down his medical bag.

She smiled, too, puzzlement quirking her eyebrow.

"Good evening, John. Good day at work, I presume?"

The edges of his smile twitched, but the brightness remained in his eyes.

"Work was as usual. But I did receive these…"

He held two tickets triumphantly in his hand. The way he was looking at Clara, her heart skipped a beat.

"Are you a fan of Dickens, Miss Oswald?"

Clara nodded, speechless. He wasn't going to…no, of course not. No use getting herself excited.

"I am, John." She replied simply.

He faltered again, looking at her as if she'd asked something absolutely ridiculous.

"Er, actually, I was wondering, Clara, if, er...if you would like to accompany me?"

Blood rushed to her cheeks, an unstoppable smile breaking out across her face. John handed her one of the tickets hastily.

"Mr. Dickens is doing a reading of A Christmas Carol next Friday evening. One of the nurses at our hospital gave me these tickets as an early Christmas present."

Clara smiled ear to ear, almost speechless.

"Oh, John; that sounds wonderful."

He gave her another boyish grin before calling Bill, who was in the nursery.

"Bill, Clara and I will be going out next Friday. Would you like to stay at the hospital for an evening with some of the ladies you met last month?"

Bill gasped, a joyous smile written all over her face.

"Will Miss Jones be there?"

"I would expect so."

"And Nardole?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Nardole is always at the hospital, Bill. I can't seem to keep him away."

Bill pursed her lips at him, in such a stern way that Clara and John couldn't help but laugh.

"What is it darling?" He asked, stifling a chuckle.

"I like Mr. Nardole."

John sighed.

"I like him, too. But he can be quite strict when it comes to certain things."

"You should be kinder to him. He makes the best tea."

John turned to Clara, almost rolling his eyes again.

"Nardole likes to add coffee to everyone's tea. It keeps this one up all night."

He tickled Bill until she wasn't cross with him. Then, he gave Clara her ticket and saw her to the door.

Before she opened the door, Clara paused.

"John, I can't thank you enough. But I don't even know what to wear, or how to carry myself...I've never been anywhere as exquisite as the theatre before."

John smiled, and her worried suddenly melted away.

"I never really fit into that crowd either," he admitted. "Don't worry about anything. You've helped so much, with Bill and everything. It's the least I can do."

Clara smiled bashfully again. Half of her was thrilled. Half of her was utterly baffled as to why he would do all of this for her, a mere governess.

And a small portion of her was, if she had to admit it, a little bit embarrassed. She'd lived on the East end her entire life. She'd prepared the children of her previous employers for formal occasions, yes; but never herself.

As Clara walked home that night, she pondered over all of these things, plus something else.

John had seemed so happy tonight; happier than she'd ever seen him before. But, as Bill said, he'd been up the night before with a nightmare that left him terrified.

What was this strange man's story? Why was he so kind, and so brave, and so hurt and sad? What had life done to him in the past that made him feel so much tenderness, but also so much heartache?

And what on earth had led this doctor to asking a governess to a reading by Charles Dickens?


	8. Ghosts of Christmas Past

**Hey everyone! Sorry I haven't been updating this as often as I'd like. School has been very stressful this semester. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter (longer than usual!) Please comment if you liked any bits (if you did), it's REALLY encouraging; you have no idea. Anyhow, please enjoy!**

Chapter 8

Ghosts of Christmas Past

The days leading up to Friday trickled by slower than molasses. Wintry winds gusted Clara around as she walked to and from the Smith's flat; work on Christmas displays brought shaky ladders and smelly carpenters walking to and fro every day; and Bill, bless her heart, was fighting an illness mild enough for her guardians not to worry, but bad enough for Clara to feel herself getting ill by osmosis. Friday evening did come, however, and without any cold or flu in sight.

Clara had the day off, and so had all of ten hours to fret about her outfit, and the people that she'd meet, and the things she'd say to John. By the time she was dressed and waiting for John's carriage, she'd worked herself into such a state that she almost didn't want to go. It would've been so much less stressful to just stay at home, read a book perhaps, and sleep early. Or, even, to go watch over Bill while John went to the show on his own, or with someone else.

A knock came to the door, sending a flurry of anxiety as well as excitement through Clara's nerves. She looked down at herself one last time, adjusting the sleeve of her dress, and then answered the door.

"Hello, John."

"Miss Oswald." He tilted his top hat with a shiny black glove, then looked her outfit over with a bright smile. "You look…amazing."

She turned away, beet red, clutching her purse in a white-knuckle grip.

"I suppose it is a little more formal than my uniform."

He merely smiled in reply, holding out his hand. She took it, trying to will her fingers to stop shaking. It didn't work, but he didn't comment on it either, except to ask, "Are you warm enough?"

She nodded, a bit of disappointment hinting at her lips as he let go of her hand to rub his gloves together.

"It's probably going to be a blustery one tonight," he said, teeth chattering.

"Yes, probably."

He held the carriage door for her, but when they'd arrived inside it, he suddenly withdrew into himself. Two blocks away from her flat, he still hadn't said another word, simply staring out the window. Clara noticed the way he held onto the door handle, like it was the only thing keeping him from falling off of a very high cliff.

"John," she said, just testing whether he'd hear her.

He hardly did, his head merely turning slightly in her direction. She cleared her throat and then repeated his name, which finally seemed to do the trick.

"Yes, Clara?" He asked, whipping his head around to her.

"Have you ever read Mr. Dickens' work?"

"Oh yes. A Christmas Carol is my favorite."

"Mine is Oliver Twist."

"Ah," he said with a smile and a nod. "Yes, that's a good one as well."

John slowly turned back toward the window, staring outside like it was his duty. They didn't speak for the rest of the five minute journey, but Clara did notice that he held the door handle with less rigidity. She marked that as a small victory.

The show was, in a word, wonderful. Perfect, even, for Clara. Everyone laughed at the right bits, cried out in the wrong bits, and looked at Mr. Dickens like a light at the end of a dark tunnel. It was as if the audience had really seen proper spirits that night, wandering through the air, and that this man had conjured them himself.

She and John walked out of the theatre to find the air almost as nippy as John had hypothesized, but neither of them seemed to notice. For Clara's part, she was much too focused on John's wonderfully theatrical retellings of Mr. Dickens words. He made them sound so different, as if she hadn't heard the story a dozen times already.

"God bless us, every one!" He cried into the night air, partially making fun of and partially admiring Mr. Dickens emotional reading of the text.

Clara laughed heartily, wrapping her shawl closer to herself. John suddenly stopped his theatrics looked at her seriously.

"Would you like me to call a carriage?"

Clara shook her head.

"I'd like to walk, if you don't mind. It's a beautiful evening."

John agreed, and so they continued down the cobblestones, looking at the horses and theatre-goers surrounding themselves. Some of the shops already had their Christmas decorations on display, candles in the windows lighting up trees and wrapped boxes.

As they walked, side by side, their arms swung closer and closer together. At one point, their fingers just brushed each other, sending shivers up Clara's spine. She suddenly became aware that neither of them were wearing gloves.

She was about to comment on this when a rough shoulder bumped into her, travelling in the opposite direction. She stumbled from the impact, and then tripped over the uneven stones. In a blur, she found herself on the ground, knees and hands scraped, and a sharp pain in her ankle.

John was by her side in an instant, his head turned up to the man who'd collided with her. His eyebrows did all of the reprimanding necessary.

"Clara, are you alright?" He asked with a gentility that contrasted sharply with the look on his face.

Her face was flushed and she was practically lying in the gutter. Worst of all, though was her ankle. She tried moving it and gasped, loud enough to turn John's stoic, angry eyes soft and nervous.

"My ankle," she explained.

One of his pale hands ghosted over her leg, hardly brushing the fabric.

"Can you stand, if I help you?"

They took each other's hands and tried to get her to her feet in a single effort. But, as soon as she put pressure on her ankle, her leg buckled and she almost landed on the ground again. Luckily, John's arm was there this time to catch her.

He let go as soon as she was in a stable, seated position on the cold cobblestones.

"Er, right," he said, the wheels visibly turning in his head. "My flat is just a few streets away. Unless you'd like a taxi to the hospital?"

She shook her head.

"I don't think the hospital is necessary."

He knelt down beside her, awkwardly figuring out what to do. Every now and then, his arms shifted toward her, testing different positions but never actually touching her. Clara finally couldn't help watching his fumbling movements any longer.

"John…?"

"I, er...if I may…? Can I, er...I can carry you to my flat. But, only if it's alright. Only...you shouldn't lie on this cold ground waiting for a carriage to stop."

Clara blushed, again, but gave him a smile.

"You may. Thank you, John. I can't say that enough."

He shifted one arm beneath her back, scooping up her legs with that gentle firmness that she'd come to recognize in him.

"I should be thanking you-for putting up with me. I am truly sorry about all of this."

He rose steadily to his feet, holding her so close to his chest that her cheek brushed against the blue fabric of his waistcoat. She could hear his heart thumping rather quickly beside her ear.

John carried her silently down the pavement, avoiding the sideways glances thrown from passersby. His breath quickened as they went, the exertion and the cold biting into his arms and weary legs. But he didn't hesitate, even for a second. He didn't even pause for breath until they were at his door.

"Er, Clara? There's a key in my left breast pocket."

They shifted around until she could reach into his pocket, an act which made both of their hearts flutter yet faster, cheeks turning dark red. Eventually, they made it into the flat, the key back in John's pocket, and Clara on the sofa with her ankle raised.

"May I check your ankle?" He asked, with so much politeness that Clara had to suppress a smile.

"Yes," she replied simply.

He knelt by her feet and carefully worked her boots off, cringing as she did.

"Sorry."

"It's fine," she said with a flash of a smile.

With even more care, he pulled her sock off and rolled up her dress, just enough so that her ankle was exposed.

Turning unto his 'doctor' personality, John examined her injury and wrapped it in a bandage pulled from his medical bag. Then he propped the foot on a pillow and stood back to survey his work.

"You have a bit of a sprain. Nothing serious, but I suggest you stay off of it as much as you can for the coming week."

Clara nodded in understanding, and then they met each other's eyes.

"I should get home. I don't want to keep you up," Clara said, making no move to leave.

John anxiously closed and opened one of his hands.

"I think, maybe, it would be best if you sleep here tonight?" His eyes grew wide as his words reached his brain. "If you are alright with that, of course. I can sleep on the sofa tonight, and you would take my bedroom."

"I couldn't-"

"Please." He smiled, as if it would make for the pleading in his tone. "I insist. It's the least I can do."

She agreed, if only to make the guilty look in his eyes go away.

John instantly busied himself making his temporary flatmate as comfortable as he could. He pulled a woman's nightgown somewhere out of a closet, brewed her a nice cup of tea, and, to top it all off, let her finish the rest of a bottle of wine he'd stashed out of Bill's reach.

He only let up on his caretaking after helping her to his bedroom. Her ankle was much better by now, allowing her to use him only as a support as she stumbled along.

"Goodnight, Clara," he said, seeing that she was sitting on the bed eyeing up the books that sat on his bedside table. "Treat yourself to any of those. Though, the history book is a bit dry for my taste. I only bought it so I could help Bill with her studies. She wants to be a 'world traveller', in her words."

Clara chuckled.

"She told me she wanted to be a doctor, like you."

He smiled to himself, and then perked his head up.

"I should let you get some rest."

He started to close the door, but Clara sat up straighter.

"John?" She called.

"Yes?"

She smiled softly.

"I had a wonderful time this evening."

He smiled bashfully.

"Goodnight, Clara," he repeated.

"Goodnight, John."

. . . . . .

Even with her foot aching slightly when she changed positions, Clara had the best sleep of her life that night. That is, until close to two in the morning when she awoke absolutely parched.

It was rather inconvenient to be so thirsty on the one night that she was less mobile than usual. It was as if her body wanted to punish her for injuring herself on the cobblestones. But, alas, she was very thirsty and John was very much asleep, so she'd have to get it herself.

As she stumbled into a standing position, her half-asleep mind mulled over her predicament. It was probably the wine. Scratch that; it was definitely the wine. In his kindness, John had unwittingly condemned her to this painful little jaunt to the kitchen.

She smiled at the irony of it, hilarious with the three hours of sleep she'd gotten so far. But as soon as she was out of John's room, she woke up abruptly.

Sounds were coming from the front room, where the sofa was. Sounds that, as a governess, she'd grown only too accustomed to hearing.

It was the murmurings of someone having a bad dream.

Clara instantly remembered Bill's words to her earlier that week, about John having terrible nightmares. Her heart ached for him even before she saw him.

When she did, her heart ached even worse.

He was holding the blankets as tightly as it seemed humanly possible, wrapping them so closely to his face Clara almost worried he'd suffocate himself. Underneath the covers, he mumbled incoherent, pain-filled words. Above, his eyelids fluttered rapidly.

Clara stumbled over to him, almost forgetting about her ankle.

"John?" She called into the darkness. She set down the candle from her room, far enough away to be out of danger, and knelt beside him. Her ankle shot with pain at the motion, but that didn't matter at the moment.

John was starting to cry in his sleep.

"John, it's alright." She cupped his cheek, and his grasp on the blankets started to wane. She pulled them away from his face just in time to catch the name 'Idris'. Her eyebrows furrowed, brain working hard.

Had he ever mentioned an 'Idris' before? Was this her business anyway? Should she go back to bed and pretend she hadn't seen or heard anything?

Her answer to that was a firm 'no'. She was Clara Oswald, and someone needed her. She wasn't about to go anywhere.

"John, wake up."

She stroked his sweaty hair, just as she had with the children she'd watched for so many years. A tear tracked down his face.

"Shh, shh." She wiped the tear away with the pad of her thumb. "John," she said more firmly.

He woke suddenly, eyes darting open and breath quickening. Clara leaned back to give him space to get his bearings. The candlelight flickered over his features, making him look even more frightened.

Clara's heart ached again.

"John?"

He seemed to see her for the first time, wiping his face quickly.

"Clara." His voice was a little broken, but he fixed it with a respectable cough. "Sorry, er, did I wake you? You shouldn't be on that ankle."

Clara rested a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the attempt her made to flinch away from her touch.

"I was already up. You were having a nightmare." She wasn't about to let him distract her from the subject.

"Yes," he said simply.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. Then, he reconsidered.

"In my line of work...it's difficult sometimes." He sighed, seeming to regret saying anything.

As he hid his face in his hands again, Clara patted his knee.

"I'm going to make a cup of tea. Do you want any?"

His brows drew together.

"It's the middle of the night."

"I'm not getting back to sleep any time soon. And neither are you. So we might as well."

He smiled at that.

"You are a very good governess."

Her smile lit up her face.

"I better be."

. . . .

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting on the sofa beside each other, each with a cup of tea in hand. They had lit more candles, and so the room was almost completely bright now, as if it weren't well past both of their usual bedtimes.

"John?" Clara asked, when they'd consumed enough regenerating tea to feel alright again. "Can I ask...you said a woman's name. Idris?"

He turned to the floor, and Clara instantly felt a weight drop in her stomach.

"I'm sorry," she said, setting her cup on the table. "It's not my place."

"No, no," he assured. "It's fine. I, er...I don't get to talk about her much anymore."

She waited patiently, as he took one last swig of tea and then set his mug beside hers.

"Idris was my wife. She was...she wasn't like anyone I'd ever met before. She was rebellious, but in a peaceful way. And she could tease like you wouldn't believe." He smiled at that. "We went everywhere together. But we'd always come back home. She was home, I suppose, in a way. I never felt like I was really home unless she was there."

His face fell. He cleared his throat before continuing.

"It was a very stormy morning when...we were in a cab, just outside of our flat in Glasgow when…there was an accident. The road...and a rogue driver...and our carriage tipped over."

His hand curled into a fist on his bouncing leg.

"I tried my best, but...she was so injured…"

His voice trailed off. Clara wanted to throw her arms around him, she felt his pain so deeply. She satisfied herself by putting a hand on his. He took it gladly, squeezing her palm.

"I'm sorry, John."

He met her eyes, and his lips flashed a little smile.

"A similar event happened with Bill's mother. I was called to the scene, but it was too late. I felt...it was my duty. So I took Bill in."

Clara squeezed his hand tighter.

"You're a good man." She wiped her own tears in her dressing gown. "I haven't...I haven't met many of them before."

"I went travelling, after Idris. I think...I didn't want to be attached to anyone again. Except Bill, of course. And…"

He caught himself at the last moment, but the way he looked into Clara's eyes told her all she needed to know.

"I'm afraid I'm rather attached to you already, John." She let her words ring through the air for a moment.

Then, she added, for propriety's sake, "And Bill, of course."

They shared one final smile before heading back to their respective beds for whatever sleep they could find in the last few hours of the night.


	9. Closer and Closer

Chapter 9

Closer and Closer

Clara woke with a strange, comfortable feeling in her chest.

She was in another woman's nightgown, lying in her employer's bed, with her injured ankle propped up on a pillow. It was a situation she had never imagined, let alone lived before. And yet…

And yet she felt, dare she say it, right at home.

Of course her actual home was a few blocks away, littered with dust and cobwebs and the ever-present spirit of her landlord. But being in this bed, with John somewhere nearby and the smell of breakfast cooking - or, rather, burning - in the kitchen just felt...right. In fact, she hadn't felt this right in a long time.

It was calming, and warm.

And it scared her half to death.

Her morning reverie was broken by the sound of voices; Bill was home, escorted by the sound of it by one of the ladies from the hospital.

Clara grimaced. She'd hoped to be out of the house before Bill came home, if only to avoid awkward questions. Too late for that.

She did let herself wait until the other woman had gone, grooming herself and putting on the gown from last night because she hadn't brought anything else. When dressed, she stared at her reflection in the mirror for a long time.

With her mind cleared of the dreamy world of sleep, she suddenly didn't feel so at home here. The dress seemed ridiculous, her hair sloppy. Last night, with John and his nightmare and their conversation afterward, seemed so awkward and embarrassing.

Would he treat her different? Or would they proceed as if she hadn't witnessed him cry and hadn't heard the tragic story of his wife's passing?

Which one did she prefer?

Clara shook her head. It wouldn't do any good to stand here avoiding the inevitable all day. She had to face him again, and explain to Bill that adult relationships are complicated.

She groaned and dropped onto the bed and wished she could just magically appear back in her own room, away from her employer/friend/gentleman friend.

Then she stood, straightened out her gown, and opened the door.

"Good morning," she said with a smile to both of the Smiths.

Bill was sitting at the dining table picking at some sausage as her father brought in another two plates to sit beside her. His jaw dropped slightly when he saw Clara, but he shut it as soon as he realized.

Bill merely grinned.

"That's a lovely dress, Miss Clara."

"Thank you, Bill."

John cleared his throat and finished setting the table.

"I was just telling Bill that you needed to stay last night; because of the, er, ankle. Is it feeling any better this morning?"

"A little, yes. You're a very good doctor, John."

He smiled, a twinkle in his eye.

"I better be."

. . . . .

"Miss Clara?" Bill asked, as the governess tried very hard not to drop sausage and eggs on her evening gown. "Can you play with us today?"

John chuckled.

"Miss Clara is probably busy, Bill. She's been trying to get home since last night."

He met Clara's eyes and they both smiled.

"But papa…"

That word again, used so casually, jolted through John. His whole face seemed to lighten, eyes softening. As if his every wish came true in that moment.

"Nah," Clara said. "You two go ahead. I probably shouldn't go around town in a ballgown anyway."

"You can join us later," John said quickly. "If, er, if you want to, I mean. You're always welcome."

Clara couldn't tell him how much that phrase meant to her, lonely as she'd been recently. So she merely replied, "Thank you, John. I'll definitely think about it."

. . . . .

Of course, 'I'll think about it' meant that she decided, right then and there at the breakfast table, that she absolutely needed to see this man and his wonderful daughter again that day. Even as she stood in her own bedroom and switched into some normal clothes, she was already planning on what she'd say when she got back to their house; what they might do together with a whole day to enjoy.

It was silly, she knew it was. Governesses aren't supposed to fawn over their employers. They're hardly even supposed to see each other, just from the nature of the job. But he was so kind, and he made her feel like a person again; after so many years working for mechanical people to pay rent for a place she didn't even like.

Clara finished getting dressed and hobbled on her still-injured ankle to the door. Just this once, she decided to be kind to herself and get a taxi to the flat. It was a short ride, made even shorter by her anxious thinking and rethinking.

What if he'd only been being nice, and he didn't actually want her with them all day?

No, of course not. People aren't just 'being nice' when they invite you to a theatre and then carry you home. People aren't just 'being nice' when they give you their wife's old dressing gown and tell you their life story.

She knocked on the door, feeling a little strange. Like she was breaking some unwritten rule or code of governesses. But her joy outweighed her little anxieties and awkwardness as soon as his face appeared at the door.

"Clara! How good it is to see you again."

He ushered her in out of the cold and over to a chair. He was still anxious about her injury, glancing at it every now and then.

"I am still sorry about last night," he said.

Clara shook her head.

"You didn't push me; a man bumped into me and I tripped over my own two feet. I'm grateful to you; else I'd probably be stuck at the hospital all this time."

He smiled, looking at the floor, and then turned toward the nursery.

"Bill! Miss Clara is here."

A soft reply came in response. It was too far away to hear but it sounded joyous.

"So where are we going today?" Clara asked to break the silence.

"There's a new bakery by the river selling eel pies," John replied.

Clara's eyebrows raised to her hairline.

"I know," he continued, "Bill was fascinated, though. She wants to try it."

Clara smiled to herself.

"You're a good father, John."

He looked at his twiddling hands.

"I don't get to see her nearly enough."

"You do what you can."

He met her eyes and held them.

"I suppose so."

. . . . . .

Eel pie was, thankfully, not the only thing on the menu. As Bill and John took daring bites of their strange new favorite baked good, Clara ordered a simple beef pie and enjoyed it like it was her last meal.

When they left the restaurant, they walked together by the riverside, Bill in between John and Clara and holding both of their hands.

"I like eel pie," Bill said, skipping over uneven cobblestones.

John smiled at his daughter, and Clara smiled at John.

"'Scuse me," said a man, standing by a camera by the short barrier wall of the walkway. "Can I interest you in a family photographic print? It's almost instantaneous-like. Only two shillings."

Clara started to politely decline, but John paused in his gait, looking at the camera standing nearby.

"Do you want to try it?"

Clara shifted from foot to foot.

"It's a fair amount of money; I don't know."

"Don't worry about the money. Please, join us?"

He held out his hand and she took it with a silly blush on her cheeks. Bill led the way to the camera, talking excitedly to the photographer about how the mechanism worked, as Clara and John followed behind at an easier pce. Only when they were stood in front of the camera did they let each other's hands go.

"Okay, now," the photographer said from behind the large device. "You've gotta hold still for about a minute. Most people just give a straight face to make it easier."

But none of them needed to keep a straight face; smiling for a minute today was an extraordinarily simply task. The day was perfect, even the wind rested and the temperature warmer than usual. Clara's shoulder was brushed up against John's, her hand on Bill's shoulder.

Smiling was so, so easy.

At the flash, the photographer let them relax.

"It'll take about fifteen minutes to process, and then I'll let you get on your way. Thank you very much."

The man tilted his hat and then got to work on the image.

Clara turned and found John leaned against the banister, looking out at the Thames. Bill was fine for the moment, watching a bird of some sort pecking at a dropped pie, so she went over to him.

"Thank you, again," she said, leaning on the wall and gazing at the river.

"It's my pleasure, Clara."

He turned to her with a smile, hardly a foot away. She smiled in return.

"John? What are you two doing after this?"

"Going home, I should think."

She shifted from foot to foot again.

"Would it be impertinent...do you have room for one more, John?"

He smiled softly into her eyes.

"We always have room for you, Clara."

. . . . .

Clara found herself, for the second night in a row, sitting on John's sofa in front of the fire. Bill was in bed, tired from a long day of eel-eating and riverwalking, no doubt. And so the adults were left sitting on the sofa, drinking wine as the looked at the picture they'd taken.

"I've never had a photograph of myself," Clara said. "I don't know if I like it."

John chuckled, but shook his head.

"You look wonderful. I'm the one who looks ridiculous."

"You don't look ridiculous."

They laughed together again, and then set the picture on the table. Clara tilted her head.

"It does look rather beautiful in the firelight."

John took a sip of his wine.

"It does," he said after a moment.

He turned to her slowly, setting his glass beside the photograph.

"Clara?"

Her heart skipped a beat. It at least felt like it did, as he gazed into her eyes.

"These past couple months have been…"

He cleared his throat.

"What I mean is…"

Clara took his hand.

"I know."

John stared at their intertwined fingers, as if wondering how they came to be that way. Then, slowly, he raised his head again to look at her, just as he raised her hand to his lips.

He opened his mouth to speak…

And then a knock came to the door.

He shut his eyes as Clara let out a chuckle.

"I'm sorry," he whispered with a smile. "I'll just go, er…"

With an apologetic look, he went to the door. Clara took a sip of wine and watched the fire as he dealt with whoever was at the door. She couldn't help but feel a little disappointed at their interruption, but she let it go. Perhaps it was some good news.

John came back to the sofa a minute later with a telegram in his hand. It was not, in fact, good news, judging by the look on his face. Eyebrows drawn, blue eyes piercing the piece of paper as if to stab it.

Clara caught herself just before she pried too far; it wasn't her news to receive and he'd tell her if he needed to. And so she went with the next best option.

"Is everything alright?"

His eyes turned up to her. In them, she read an expression that clearly read 'no, everything is very not alright'. But then he plastered on that false smile and folded up the telegram.

"It's fine," he forced through gritted teeth. "Do you want any more wine?"


	10. Take Me Back to Yesterday

Chapter Ten

Take Me Back to Yesterday

Clara was back at the Smith household the next morning, a little disappointed that this visit was for work and not play. As she strolled up the front path, she pondered over the wonderful two days they'd spent together. The theater, and the walk by the river; not to mention the conversations that had brought them so much closer. The telegram last night had put a slight damper on things, as John had instantly become more serious afterward. But overall, it was simply the best time she'd had in a while.

But now it was Sunday, and playtime was over. John had lives to save at the hospital, and Bill had church service to attend with her governess. That was, of course, still Clara's job and purpose in being here at all.

She knocked in the usual playful manner, but the door opened to reveal a rather unplayful Dr. Smith. He was actually fully dressed and ready to leave this time, not hustling around like his usual self. His shirt, buttoned up all the way to his chin and pressed, made him look a little stuffier than he usually did. Clara hadn't realized how much joy she found in his wrinkled clothing and dishevelled hair.

"Good morning, Miss Oswald."

His voice was as polite as ever, but something about his stiff demeanor made her feel odd.

"Hello John," she said, as if to spite his proper, boring attitude.

He shut the door and picked up his medical bag in one swift motion.

"I will return at approximately four this afternoon. You are planning on bringing Bill to service at eleven, correct?"

Clara's eyebrows raised at the strangeness in his voice, so strict and matter-of-fact.

"Yes."

He nodded quickly, threatening his neck with whiplash.

"I must bid you farewell, then."

He went to open the door, but Clara rushed forward.

"Wait, John. Do you want to say goodbye to Bill before you leave?"

His muscles relaxed suddenly. He turned halfway toward her, and Clara saw a familiar glint in his eye. He was still in there, somewhere. The usual him. God only knew where he'd gone or why.

John smiled briefly, as forced a smile as the one he'd given in reaction to the telegram.

"I don't see any reason. I will see you both this evening."

He disappeared through the door before Clara could get another word in.

. . . . . . . .

Clara found Bill lying on the floor of the nursery drawing pictures. As soon as she walked in, the girl smiled broadly.

"Miss Clara!"

Bill threw her arms around her and Clara could only laugh.

"I only saw you last night."

"It feels like longer."

Clara let Bill hold onto her for as long as she wanted, and then watched her jump instantly back into her drawing. She sat beside her and looked at the picture, a river with a cameraman beside it.

"Is that us?" Clara asked, pointing to a few people standing in front of the camera.

Bill nodded in response, but kept on drawing quietly.

After another minute, Clara adjusted how she was seated and cleared her throat.

"Er, Bill? Did anything happen with your father last night? He seems...distant."

Bill paused in her sketch, and then shook her head.

"He's been acting strange all day," Bill said. "I don't think he slept at all last night."

Clara nodded, deep in thought.

"He's not himself today, is he?" She asked.

"No," Bill agreed.

Clara leaned back, trying to get comfortable on the floor.

"Don't you worry about it," she told the young girl. "I'll figure it out. Alright?"

Bill considered it for a moment, and then nodded.

"Good. Now, you better get dressed. Mass starts in an hour."

. . . . . . . . .

Mass dragged on, as did everything else they did that day. It was a true Sunday, filled with dread of what was to come but also boredom with what was currently had. They played with dolls, until the dolls' stories ended. And they drew pictures, until the walls were filled.

And then they sat and waited for John to get home. Clara couldn't tell if they were more excited or more curious at how he'd act, now that he'd had hours to work through whatever it was he was working through.

Bill turned to her as soon as they heard the front gate swing open, her small fingers twiddling in her lap. Clara smiled at how similar she was to John, in that respect and so many others.

"Miss? What if he's cross?"

"You're father is not cross with you. You behaved wonderfully all weekend."

"Then...why is he acting so strange?"

Clara sighed.

"Don't you worry about it. I'll try to find out, okay?"

Bill nodded. She and Clara shared a smile just as the door opened and John walked in.

"Hello," Clara said, getting to her feet. He gave her a smile, but again it looked almost like it pained him to do so. Clara felt a pang in her chest. Had she done something wrong? Or was there something he hadn't told her?

"Good evening, Clara. Bill."

He set down his bag and hung up his coat. Only when he sat and noticed Clara getting her things together did he speak again.

"Clara, may I speak with you for a moment?"

Somehow, his tone made it sound like she was in trouble at school. But his eyes seemed...soft. Almost sad. Clara sent Bill off to the nursery with an encouraging little smile and then sat in the chair opposite John.

He was twiddling his thumbs and avoiding her eyes.

"Clara...as you know, I received a telegram last night."

She leaned forward in her seat. She didn't know, now, if she wanted to know the contents of the telegram. John had certainly suffered for it.

"Yes," she said. "I remember."

"The doctor I am substituting is returning early. He was supposed to explore the continent for two more months, but the weather is apparently disagreeable to him. I am...I am to finish my service at the hospital on Tuesday."

He said it quickly, as if to spit out a poison. But it did not lessen the blow. Clara felt his words spin in her head, landing painfully somewhere in her chest and stomach.

"So soon?" She asked in a small voice.

John still hadn't looked up from the floor.

"Bill and I are to leave for our new appointment on Wednesday."

Clara stared at him for a long moment, but he still wouldn't dare meet her eyes. Hers were filling with tears.

"That's Christmas Eve," she said suddenly, as if that was what mattered.

"Yes. Unfortunately, a hospital in Wales requires my immediate service. Bill will be disappointed, I think, but she will learn in time that this was for the best."

Clara looked away from him. He was sounding like one of her usual clients now, all formalities and bringing up proper, respectable children. How had he - the real him - vanished so quickly? Where was the man who spent half a day's wage on a photograph and an eel pie?

"John…" Clara started, unsure what she wanted to say.

"I will make sure to pay you severance, and I will write a letter of recommendation for any job you wish to apply for in the future."

"That's not what matters," she said, with a harshness that surprised even herself. "John…"

"Clara, please; we have to be sensible. We can't always have the life that we want to have."

"I know."

With those two words, she gave him the sternest glare she could muster. He finally found her eye, and then looked away sheepishly. Clara swallowed, in hopes of banishing the anger from herself. But then she shook her head.

"Do whatever you wish; but do not call me insensible for wanting to be happy."

She grabbed her bag before he could respond, and had the door open to the blustery wind within a second of getting her coat on.

"Clara, please; don't make this harder than it has to be," John said. Finally he sounded a bit more like himself, voice breaking slightly.

Clara turned back, a few tears freezing to her cheeks.

"I'm not, John. That's you."

She disappeared into the December air without another glance.


	11. Will I, Won't I

Chapter Eleven

Will I, Won't I

Sunday night, Clara was angry.

Two cups of tea and a sit-down by the fire with her favorite Dickens novel didn't seem to be of any help, either. If anything, it just made her think about John eve more, and how angry she was.

She wasn't honestly sure, as she sat in her chair and tried, rather badly, to forget about the Smiths, whether she was angry about John or the situation they were in. Yes, he'd upset her earlier, all acting like he knew best and being distant. But more than that, it was just so much more frustrating that they were in this position at all. Why did that silly doctor have to return so suddenly? And what was so urgent in Wales that John and Bill had to be there instead of London at Christmas?

Tossing and turning throughout the night, Clara made another realization. Perhaps she wasn't angry with any of the doctors, John or otherwise. Maybe she didn't have a sudden hatred of Wales. Perhaps, just, perhaps, she was angry with herself.

She had felt things, things she hadn't felt in a very, very long time. He made her happy, and excited, and sort of like her little dilapidated flat in the East End was not all that she had in her life. He had given her a home, a real home. They had fun together, real fun.

Maybe she was only angry with herself. Because she'd never told him any of these things, and now he was leaving. God only knew if they'd ever meet again, let alone walk by the Thames hand in hand or sit and have a glass of wine by the fireside.

Her daydreaming brought fresh tears into her eyes, just as dawn creeped over the horizon, yellow light bleeding through the dusty windows. Outside, people shouted and dogs barked and a new day began. Clara still had no idea what she wanted to do.

Monday morning, Clara was sad.

Beyond that, she was conflicted. Should she pour her heart out for a man she didn't know felt the same? Should she give up what little she had in her little life on a chance to be happy?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Maybe she should just leave it; forget him. Make a new life for herself. He'd write her a letter of recommendation, and giver her some money. She could promote herself and get a good job. She could move into a nicer flat, next to a bakery or a flower shop. She could walk the Thames by herself and feel like she owned the world.

Only something in that daydream was missing.

Clara groaned, forced herself up out of bed, and got dressed. After all, problems weren't solved by running circles in one's head. You had to get up and find a solution.

Breakfast, a bowl of porridge. Boots on. Coat and scarf and gloves to ward off the December chill. Door opened, and a hat added to her head.

And down the street she went, where all of the shops glistened with waning candlelights.

. . . . . . .

Tuesday morning, Clara was as conflicted as ever.

She hadn't seen John since their little quarrel on Sunday night. Would he even want to talk to her? Or would he be all distant and strange again, acting as if they had never revealed their deepest secrets to each other?

But on the other hand, she only had today and tomorrow morning to tell him what he meant to her, if she so chose to do so. Then he'd be in Wales and she'd be in London. And oh, this all seemed so hopeless!

She couldn't just up and leave her flat to chase after her previous employer (that is, after all, all that he technically was to her, on paper). She had responsibilities, rent due, money in the local bank, debts to be paid. She had people she knew, and smiled at every day. Comforts she'd found even in her humble home in her struggling neighborhood.

Yes, she wanted to travel someday. But people from her neighborhood couldn't just up and leave. That was how most of them got stuck there. And she definitely was not about to sell out her independence for some man who might only ever see her as a rather good governess.

She knocked on the door, confused and unsure and overall just feeling a very dull gray, like a cloud was stationed above her head creating a fog in her brain. John opened the door, still buttoning his shirt closed, unevenly. His medical bag sat half open on the chair, though the clock read that he was already late for work.

Oh, John.

If this had been a novel, Clara would have grabbed her arms around him and professed her undying love. She would cry into his shoulder and beg him not to go, or beg him to take her along. They'd walk into the sunrise together, Bill beside them, and it would all be very lovely.

But this was not a romance novel. At least, Clara didn't think it was.

And so she walked inside and found Bill with a bandaged knee sitting on the sofa, and John running around to pack his things and get to work.

"It's a good thing it's my last day," John said with a smirk. "Otherwise I might get the sack."

Clara set her things down.

"They can't sack you for being a good father."

"If only," he joked, shutting the claps of his bag.

Clara sat beside Bill.

"What happened?"

Her face blushed slightly.

"I was running through the flat and I fell," Bill said timidly.

"Why were you running? Was there an ogre?"

Bill giggled.

John raised an eyebrow.

"Only if I count as an ogre," he said as he worked his coat over his shoulders.

He and Clara shared a smile that made her chest ache. If she could only tell him...no. He was late for work, anyway.

She handed him the medical bag.

"All ready?" She asked.

"I believe so. Oh, Clara,"

The way he said her name, with that accent she loved so much, made her chest ache even worse.

"I will give you you're severance pay and the letter of recommendation as soon as I get home this evening."

She nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

"Thank you, John."

Each word struggled over the lump forming in her throat.

"Bill, let's leave the ogre chasing to the experts, alright?" He said playfully.

Bill merely giggled again.

Clara watched him start down the street, shutting the door only when he was completely out of view. Then she turned to her charge and made herself forget him, for the moment. She still had a day's work to do.

"Your father is a brilliant doctor, but he forgot the one thing that always makes me feel better after I've hurt myself."

Bill's eyebrows furrowed together.

"What's that?"

"Ice cream!"

Bill grinned, and for just a little while, the ache in Clara's chest didn't feel so heavy.


	12. Run To You

Chapter Twelve

Run To You

As evening drew closer and closer, the uncertainty settled again in Clara's stomach. While she helped Bill get her toys all packed up for the big move, a dread formed in her stomach. She ached, in her chest and in her head. By the time the sun was lower than the horizon, she wanted to be sick.

Still, that uncertainty held. Does she tell him, too late and with much hesitation, that he has been the closest person to her in years? Or does she let him and his daughter start their new life together? After all, half of her was screaming to just let it all go; let him go. Forget about it and move on.

The door opened, and Clara's blood turned to ice. Shaky fingers dropped Bill's toy horse. By some miracle, it didn't break.

When Bill had made sure her horse was still intact, she jumped up and ran to the door. Clara realized somewhere in the back of her mind that the girl shouldn't be running, especially after she had already fallen once today. But most of Clara's mind was too focused on the fact that this was their last time greeting John as he came home from work.

Maybe her last time ever seeing him.

She swallowed, forced some composure. Then stood, slowly, and followed Bill to the front room.

John was there, with an arm around his daughter as he tried to put his medical bag on the floor. Clara chuckled softly.

"Bill, let's let him relax for a moment. I'm sure he had a long day at work."

Bill gave her a sheepish smile, and then darted off to gather up the toys that hadn't been packed away yet. John and Clara both watched her go with wide smiles.

As soon as she was out of the room, however, the mood shifted. The laughs died on their lips, and neither pair of eyes would meet the other.

The ominous feeling of something coming to an end, just as it was getting started.

"Clara," John started, reaching into his inside pocket. "I have the rest of your pay. And I have also included a letter of recommendation."

He handed her a thick envelope, a smile playing at his lips. Clara tried to hide the slight shake in her fingers as she took it from him.

"Thank you, John."

"You deserve it, Clara. You deserve more than I can give you, if I'm honest."

She looked up abruptly and knew he was not only talking about the money.

"I will miss you, John," she said, a wobble in her voice.

He still had that soft, sad smile on his face.

"Not as much as we will miss you," he said, voice quiet.

Silently, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. He held her hand in his for just a second too long; Clara could feel his hesitation in letting go. It almost threw her over the edge.

"John."

"Yes, Clara?"

The words died somewhere in her throat. What was the point, now? What would be accomplished? He would leave and there would be even more heartache.

No. It was over. It was dark and the Smiths had to get to sleep for their morning journey.

"Have a safe trip.," she said at last. "And, please, don't hesitate to write."

His lips twitched downward. Then he forced a smile.

"Thank you, Clara."

They held each other's eyes for another moment; so many words trying to be conveyed in mere irises. And then John stepped back and called Bill back into the room.

"Let's say goodbye to Miss Clara, Bill. I'm sure she wants to start home before it gets too cold."

Bill was shyer than usual, standing with her hands folded, John's hands on her shoulders.

"Goodbye, Bill," Clara said, with the biggest smile she could muster.

Bill was silent at first. Then, she tore out of her father's grasp and took Clara in a tight hug.

"Goodbye, Miss Clara."

Clara rubbed the girl's back, closing her eyes to get some composure.

"Have a wonderful time in Wales."

Clara forced her legs to the door; forced her hand to the knob.

With one last look, and one last goodbye, Clara left the Smith's flat and trudged out into the snow.

. . . . . . . . .

It took all of about five minutes sitting by her fireside before Clara realized she'd forgotten to deliver the Christmas presents. She shut her eyes and took a sip of tea, working out a plan. It was too late to go out now; the snow was piling up and it was dangerously cold.

But maybe...no. However…no.

She silenced her eager brain. There would be no late night deliveries. No more tearful goodbyes. She was done. That chapter was over now, and it was time to get used to it.

And yet…

And yet, just before dawn, Clara found herself as wide awake as if it were noon. Something had woken her; not a nightmare, not a sound. Perhaps a feeling?

Whatever it was, it wasn't letting her go back to sleep. The sun was just peeking through the windows, bathing her room in golden light. It was beautiful.

And it was so, so invigorating.

In the darkness of the night it was easy to cry and feel sorry for herself. It was simple, when it was snowing and cold, to say that all hope was lost and she should just accept the way things were.

But now, sitting up in bed, feeling the bright energy that came with a new day, seeing the snow thawing in the warmth of the sun...now that hope was growing again. Intoxicating, and poisoning.

She jumped out of bed before her brain could catch up. Threw a dress on, laced up a pair of boots; found herself staring at the wrapped presents by the fireplace.

A smile spread across her face. Mischievous and happy and excited and terrified. It was scary how much she was enjoying this, breaking the rules and going against every rational part of her mind.

She should just forget him and move on!

But no! She was not going to do that today. Never, ever.

It was Christmas Eve morning and Clara was outside with two big boxes in her hands. The snow was thawing, but the ground was still slippery so she took it carefully. She walked all the way to the Smith's flat before her heart caught up with her.

Then it started pounding, just as she started pounding on the door.

She knocked once; twice. Then a third time just for luck. She repeated the exercise twice. A little ways away, a small old lady came ambling toward her, covered in shawls and scarves.

"Are you looking for Dr. Smith?"

"Yes," Clara said, smiling in an almost hysterical way.

"Sorry, dear, you've just missed him. Train leaves Waterloo Station at 6:15."

"6:15?"

Clara looked up to the clock on the street corner.

5:55. Bloody…

If she weren't in such a giddy state, she would have given up right then and there. She would have accepted her loss, cried for a day or two, and the moved on. That's what any rational person would do, surely, if in her place.

But she was Clara Oswald. She had nothing but her filthy little flat and a mean landlord. She hadn't been happy, properly happy, in a long time. Not until John. And Bill. Having a family again. Having love again. Having hope again.

And she was not one to give up so easily.

"Thank you," she said to the old lady, already starting down the street.

"Where are you going?"

Clara beamed.

"I have presents to deliver!"

She tore off down the street. Despite the pain still aching in her ankle; despite all sense that told her she'd never make it in time. Despite the few people out this early looking at her as if she were insane.

Despite the worry and dread coursing through her own heart.

"Just this once; just this once give me this," she murmured to herself.

She probably looked like a thief, running through the streets of London with a couple of packages in her hands. Or some very strange form of Santa Claus. One who'd gotten their time zones wrong and was being watched in broad daylight for all of London to see.

She finally came into view of Waterloo station and dared to look at the clock.

6:10.

She ran to the nearest employee, scaring the wits out of him with the wild look in her eye.

"The 6:15 to Wales?"

He pointed down the hallway, looking her over as if she had a tarantula on her head.

"Thank you!" She called, already halfway across the station.

Through a door, up some steps, a few people bumped along the way. Then, finally, the train appeared. Big and bright and gleaming. The smell of coal in the air, but she didn't care. Men asking for tickets, but she didn't care.

She maneuvered through while the workers were busy, then jumped onto the train. She walked through one compartment, then the next. Then the next. Then...there.

She froze, watching John shove his bags up onto an upper compartment at the end of the narrow aisle. Bill was by his side, looking at all of the people around her with a slightly fearful expression. Clra heard John try to calm her, saying something about the train being very popular and Christmas Eve being busy.

Clara took a step forward, and suddenly felt strange. What if she wasn't doing the right thing? What if they'd moved on already and she was just some weird lady following them?

No. She knew that wasn't true. And she'd come all this way. It was time to face what she was afraid of and get over it.

He would say yes and she'd be very happy, or he'd say no and she'd go home and still be alright, in the end. This wasn't life or death.

This was a smile or a frown.

"John?" She called out, but he didn't hear her. She took another few steps forward.

"John."

He spun around, nearly knocking over half of his luggage.

"Clara!"

"Miss Clara!" Bill shouted, running to hug her midriff.

"Hello sweetheart," Clara said with a laugh.

John blinked a few times as if to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

"How did you-?"

"I forgot to give you your presents," Clara said simply.

John choked out a few stammers that didn't end in real words. Clara replied with a smile and handed one of the boxes to Bill.

"That's for you, Bill."

The girl took the box with a wide smile and went to her seat to open it. Clara felt her heart lift as Bill thanked her immensely for the new book, an atlas, and looked through it immediately. Clara turned to John, who still hadn't quite found his voice.

"And this, John, is for you."

He took the box, but didn't open it just yet.

"Clara…"

She was breathing heavy from all of the running. And as she took a step forward, her leg buckled beneath her, ankle screaming out against all of the movement. John caught her as she fell, and helped her to an empty seat.

"Clara, are you alright?" He asked hurriedly, sitting in the seat beside her.

"I'm fine," she said, still wearing that mad smile.

"John." She took his hand. "Before you go...we need to say things to each other. Before it's too late."

He looked down at their intertwined hands.

"I'm sorry for how I acted the other day," he said suddenly. "I suppose...I thought that if I acted like...I thought that I could stop loving you."

His cheeks burned red as he met her eyes.

"You...you love me?" Clara asked, stunned and breathless.

John smiled quickly, his cheeks burning brighter.

"Yes. I do."

"Oh, John." She placed a hand on his cheek, staring into his eyes as if to memorize them. "I can't bear to watch you go. And I've always wanted to travel. Especially...especially if I get to travel with you."

John kissed her knuckles, in a similar manner as last night.

"It's a shame you want to travel so badly."

Her eyes widened slightly.

"Why?"

His lips curled into a smile.

"Because I've finally found a reason to stay in one place for a while."

She smiled, and then pulled him toward herself. Their lips crashed together, both of them slowly melting into the kiss. John's hand found her arm and held her; her fingers caressed his cheeks. There was a moment where all that they noticed was each other.

Then, the train lurched forward.

Their kiss was broken as they both jerked in their seats, catching each other before they could fall. They noticed, then, the people watching them and the conductor standing with an eyebrow quirked in their direction.

"Guess we're along for the ride," Clara said with a laugh.

John squeezed her hand and gave her another broad smile.


	13. All is Calm

Chapter Thirteen

All is Calm

It was a humbling train ride, to say the very least.

Bill was baffled at first, when her eye peered over her new atlas to see her father kissing Miss Clara. But before they'd even broken apart, she was smiling. In her, admittedly limited, experience, people didn't kiss and then say goodbye. Unless it was a goodbye kiss?

She was baffled again, already, as the train started out and Miss Clara and her father were laughing. She didn't get the joke. Perhaps it was because they were too far away to hear?

She stood and made her way down the aisle toward them. The train wasn't very smooth, and she had to hold onto the backs of seats as she toddled down the center lane. Once she was finally within earshot, she smiled again.

"Papa!"

She fell backward, suddenly, as the train lurched around a tight corner.

John was at her side immediately, Clara right behind him.

"Are you alright, darling?" He asked, carefully scooping his daughter into his arms. "We should stay seated while the train is moving."

"Sorry papa."

He set her back in her seat and pointed something out in her atlas, which she took up excitedly again. Clara took the seat across the aisle as John sat beside his daughter.

It was a strange situation they were in, to have gone from ex-employee and employer to...whatever they were now in the span of a few minutes. Not to mention that they were stuck on a train to Wales that none of them really wanted to be on.

"John, what hospital are you going to work for in Wales?" Clara asked finally, hating the awkward silence that had sprung up between them since the confession and the kiss and the train pulling out.

"It's, er, in Cardiff. I forget the name, if I'm honest." He smiled sheepishly. "Probably not as exciting as London."

Clara smiled as well, but her brain was firing rapidly.

"John...have you ever considered opening your own practice?"

His eyes widened, fingers rubbing together on his lap.

"Yes, actually. I almost did, once. Idris loved the idea…"

His voice trailed off.

"It just never quite worked out. And when she died, I…just kept travelling."

Clara reached across the aisle and took his hand.

"Maybe you can try again?"

He smiled, eyes softening as they focused on her face.

"That would be nice." He turned to his daughter. "And if it went well, I could definitely have more time at home. No more late nights."

He brightened just at the thought.

"Let's do it," Clara said, with that mad smile on her face again.

"Yeah?" His smile widened.

"Yeah."

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

They arrived at the Cardiff flat, a furnished little place overlooking the water. Clara was carrying Bill's bag, telling her all the facts she knew about Wales (which was admittedly few). She stopped when she reached the door, and turned to John. He was frozen still. His eyes were locked on the distant sea.

"John?"

He blinked back into focus.

"Should we get inside?" She asked gently.

He smiled then; a pure, real smile that actually reached his eyes.

"I don't think we're meant to be here."

Clara's brows furrowed.

"Did we read the address wrong?"

He shook his head, that same smile holding on his lips.

"No. But this place just isn't where we're meant to be. It's lovely but...it's not home."

Clara shrugged.

"Maybe it'll be better once we get inside?"

He met her eyes. She understood before he even said it.

"I think my home was in London," he said, ignoring the rush of heat flooding into his cheeks. "With you."

Clara's face lit up. She set Bill's bag on the sidewalk and then threw her arms around John's neck.

"You know, Dr. Smith? I think you're right."

They kissed, for a moment forgetting Bill was standing there. When they broke apart, the young girl was eyeing them strangely.

"Is Miss Clara going to be our family now?"

John turned back to Clara, holding both of her hands.

"Well, Bill. That's up to her." He lowered his voice, "You don't need to answer that right now."

Clara chuckled, though she was admittedly turning pink around the face as well.

"For now," she said, wrapping her arms around John's shoulders. "Yes. If you'll have me."

. . . . . . . . . .

The trains were full for the rest of the day. Add to that Bill's need for a nap, John and Clara's exhaustion, and the sweet little cottage that was all theirs, the Smiths decided to stay in Cardiff for Christmas.

The weather was acting as expected; that is, blustery winds and pelting rain dampened a bit of the holiday atmosphere. But they found that none of that mattered. They had their luggage, beside Clara who, again, had to rely on a strange woman's clothes to change into. They had a few twigs off an evergreen tree to act as a tree. They even had some unbrewed tea, left by the previous occupants, sitting in a cupboard.

Most of all, though, they had each other.

"Bill, you'd better get to sleep," John said with a playful twinkle in his eye. "Tomorrow's a big day."

Bill smiled widely, and the practically dashes into her room to get ready for bed. Clara watched her with a smile, and then leaned deeper into John's shoulder.

The couch was old, but comfortable enough for the two of them. In front of them danced, giving warmth and comfort. All was calm.

"John," she said suddenly, sitting up. "You never opened your gift."

He flashed a smirk.

"I thought it was against the rules to open presents before Christmas."

Clara shrugged, cocking her head.

"If you don't want to, then…"

"Okay," he laughed. "Only I haven't got you anything."

She handed him the gift, wrapped in bright red paper, and then leaned her head on her elbow. He eyed it and then her carefully. Then, he tore into the paper.

"Oh, Clara," he breathed.

It was box filled with paint brushes. A couple of tubes of paint sat in the smaller compartments on the sides.

"Bill found some of your drawings one day," Clara explained quickly. "I thought maybe you'd want to get back into art again sometime."

John gave her a smile that was worth so much more than the gift she'd bought him.

"Thank you, Clara. It's absolutely perfect."

He pulled out one of the brushes and examined it closely.

"Maybe I will. I can decorate our practice, when we open it," he added with a smile.

His arm reached around Clara and pulled her toward himself. And in that moment, Clara felt like the happiest person on the planet. She was sitting in front of the fire, with her head leaned on John's shoulder. Dreaming of a small, happy future in London as they sat comfortable in a Welsh cottage.

She couldn't remember ever being happier.


	14. All is Bright

**Chapter 14**

 _All is Bright_

Clara's flat was not decorated. It was not filled with lights and scents of Christmas dinner. There wasn't any gas lighting. In fact, it was messy and cramped and just a little bit on the musty side.

Clara explained all of this to John as she shakily unlocked the front door, quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping girl in John's arms.

"Clara, I'm sure it'll be perfect," John said, with as much kindness as always.

Clara smiled in thanks, and pushed the door open. Her flat was dusty, and messy like she'd thought. But there was a part of her that felt good to be here; to be home for Christmas. They'd gotten up so early, wandered in such a lost state through Cardiff, all to be back here in London for the holiday.

She had to admit, it was worth it. To be in her flat for Christmas, with people she loved to finally make it feel like a home was the greatest gift she could ask for.

John set Bill under a blanket on Clara's bed, and then returned to her side in the lounge. She was darting this way and that, cleaning and straightening up. She only paused when she felt his hand on her back.

"Clara," he said with a small chuckle. "It's perfect."

Clara shook her head and laughed as if he'd said a joke.

"You'd probably have a better place to celebrate at the hospital."

He stepped forward, holding her waist with both hands.

"Anywhere I'm with you is the best place in the world."

Her cheeks blushed in the gentle candlelight. How fast they had gotten this far. How right it felt, to be here with him.

She cradled his neck in her palms and brought his head down low enough to kiss him, slowly. She broke it off a moment later with a smile, but leaned her forehead on his.

"Happy Christmas, John Smith."

"Happy Christmas, Clara Oswald."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

By the evening, the flat looked much more festive. Bill sat in front of the fireplace with a new doll, playing doctor with some of John's medical supplies. More candles had been lit, giving the space a warm glow that blanketed all three occupants with a comforted feeling.

Clara handed John a glass of mulled wine and sat beside him on the couch.

"Did you like your presents, Bill?" She asked.

Bill turned, still holding a small piece of gauze as she wrapped up her doll's arm.

"Yes. I like papa's work things most, though."

John grinned.

"Just be careful with those. I need some for my patients, alright?"

"Yes, papa."

Clara noted the deep joy in his eyes when Bill called him that. She could read the love there.

"I'm so happy, John," she said softly.

"Me too."

She kissed his cheek and stood to wash her glass, but he took her hand.

"Clara, I have something for you."

She set down her empty glass and sat back down beside him. He reached into his inside pocket with an anxious smile, and suddenly pulled out a box, all wrapped up and tied with a string.

"Happy Christmas, Clara."

"Oh, John."

She tore through the paper, feeling sort of sorry as it ripped open. With bated breath, she opened the box.

Inside was a piece of paper, covered with a wrapping to keep it protected. When she removed this last layer, it revealed a picture, beautifully sketched. It was a woman...oh.

"John…this is much too beautiful to be me," Clara said with a chuckle.

"It doesn't do you justice."

She looked up and found him looked back at her with eyes filled with love.

"Do you like it?" He asked sheepishly.

Clara held it to her chest.

"John, I love it. I love you," she added in a whisper.

They kissed again, as Bill played distracted with her doll and the fire burned and the candlelight danced. As people sang outside and children played in the snow.

When they broke apart, Clara smiled again.

"Do you remember when we first met? You were lost and accidentally showed up at my door."

"Greatest mistake of my life," he murmured.

"I hope I'm more than that," Clara said playfully.

He laughed, taking her lips onto his own again.

"Clara, I can't wait to start the next chapter of my life with you."

"I think it'll be my best chapter yet," she said.

And the doctor and the governess held hands, watching their little girl pretend to be a doctor. Sitting in a messy flat in the East End, without a clue what they were going to do next, the family celebrated Christmas. And, after it all, they couldn't imagine life being any better had their lives followed any different path.


End file.
